


Fat Cats

by cassiopea (nina_monk)



Series: The Burly Banner Series [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Belly Kink, Chubby Bruce, Comfort Food, F/M, Feeding Kink, Food Kink, Hand Feeding, Master/Pet, Pet Play, Self-Esteem Issues, Stuffing, Weight Gain, chef natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4852676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nina_monk/pseuds/cassiopea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ultron, Bruce ran from his team and ran from his relationship with Natasha. He’s not the same man now, but Natasha is determined to help him become the man he was always meant to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fat Cats

**Author's Note:**

> Post AoU. This is a “mature” piece I promised for one of my Tumblr followers, based on our late night chat session. I can’t promise that I used all the elements we mentioned, but hopefully I got a little close. It was fun to stretch myself a little. It's very much a kink piece (pet play and weight gain) but it's pretty darn vanilla as far as those things go (because I'm pretty darn vanilla...well, with sprinkles).

Since his return, their relationship had been strained. The first few weeks he tried pretending it had been his fault, not hers, and that they could get back together, that things could return to what they were...but they both saw through that horrible lie. Eventually Natasha cornered him after one of the team dinners. But instead of confessing Bruce curled up on himself, unable and unwilling to look her in the eye. She didn’t ask if he still loved her; instead, she asked something far worse.

“Do you trust me?” She whispered.

Bruce tightly hugged his body. “No.” He swallowed down the lump threatening to choke him.

Her next words surprised him: “Fair enough," she said. "But do you _want_ to?”

His chin bobbed slightly and he almost caught her eye, which was as close to an acknowledgement as anything else. “Yes,” he mumbled. He might not ever love her the same way he once did, but he wanted to trust her. God, he really did.

"I could help with that, if you'll let me."

She proposed a series of exercises where all he had to do was not think, and do exactly what she said, for a few hours. Nothing more, nothing less. In short he had to trust her one-hundred percent and without question...but of course Bruce was skeptical. What did she expect? Would she blindfold him, and make him walk a high-wire in Midtown? Tease out the Hulk in a populated city–? She promised she would do no such thing. In fact, she said, all she wanted was for him to join her for dinner at least three times per week. And she’d do all the cooking.

Bruce chuckled darkly. “You’re not planning to poison me, are you?”

Natasha shot him one of her patented eye-rolls. “Of course not. I’m not poisoning you, Bruce. It’s _dinner_.”

“Just dinner?”

“Just dinner.” Her smirk deepened. “With the promise of more, but only if you want it.”

Bruce snorted. “So, sex, then.”

Natasha slowly shook her head while her eyes bore into his own. “I never said sex, Bruce. I want you to trust me, that’s all. How far we run with it, well, that’s entirely up to you. But it doesn’t have to be sex.”

Bruce rubbed his arms, expecting a trap (because he always expected a trap), but he nodded because curiosity won out. He couldn't help wondering exactly what she'd try. And so, a day or two later he tested her, when he showed up at her apartment with a bouquet of her favorite flowers.

“Nice!” She took the flowers from him and inhaled deeply. Her smile sent a hidden shiver down his spine that he wished wasn’t there. “They’re beautiful. You remembered.”

He scratched the back of his neck and switched his feet. “Well, I’m not a total ass,” he mumbled. “Just part of the time.”

She ushered him inside instead of responding to his quip, but his eyes briefly shut as soon as he stepped into the foyer. ‘Wow. It smells…heavenly in here.” The spices in the air flooded his senses, teasing him with foods from faraway lands, while his stomach growled in appreciation. “I didn’t know you could cook," he said, gracing her with a fleeting smile. 

She pinned him with a haughty eyebrow and directed him to her comfiest couch. “You have to acquire more than a few skills as a spy, Bruce. I can’t very well woo a man, if I can’t cook. Way to the heart is through the stomach, after all.”

Bruce cleared his throat while she slid over the armrest and handed him a glass of something that smelled sweet, and slightly alcoholic. “I’m…not even sure you’re joking.” He sniffed the drink and took a small sip, and decided he liked the subtle hints of berries and honey.

“A little.” She watched him take another sip. “I can cook, when I want to.”

Bruce nodded and rolled the glass in his hand. After a moment, he saluted her with it. “And how drunk will this make me?”

“The _stavlenniy myod_?” Bruce mouthed the new words and committed them to memory as he drank. “Not very, unless you finished the bottle. Probably equal in strength to a strong Chardonnay.”

Making a face, he drained his glass. “So, not a ploy to get me drunk, then.”

“Not everything’s a ploy, Bruce. Or a set up.”

He heard the warning notes in her voice. “Sorry. I’m still–”

“Wary. I know.” Natasha’s smile returned to her lips. She took his glass and filled it partway, as if testing him. “So,” she murmured. “Have you thought about my offer?”

Bruce plucked the glass from her fingers and ran his thumb across the rim. “The whole, ‘making me trust you’ experience?”

She smiled.

“I’m intrigued. Curious, really, to see how you’ll accomplish it.” His lip quirked. “Very few people earn back my trust, once they lose it. Forcing me to obey your every whim doesn't normally work.”

“There’s my little snarkmaster,” she sighed, but she wasn’t upset, not that Bruce could see. She took his glass and sipped from his cup before handing it back to him.

She cocked her head. “All cards on the table, then. No tricks. I want to make you feel comfortable again, Bruce, with me. With the Tower. With Tony, and the rest of the Avengers. Because it’s not just me you ran from, Bruce. You ran from the team, and you had no problems leaving us high and dry.”

He winced and took a pull from his glass. “Ouch.”

“It’s true. You were forced to face some very dark parts of yourself, parts you’d fought to stay hidden.” She tilted her chin. “The Witch exposed all of your nerves, all at once, and you can’t fight on a team with all that anger threatening to boil over. Even if you’re always angry, Bruce, you _will_ turn on one of us, if you’re fighting to keep both your anger and your darkness in check.”

He didn’t say anything, but the jumping tic in his clenched jaw told her all she needed to know. Natasha let the silence linger as Bruce finished his glass a second time. “As lovely as that sounds,” he said roughly, “I don’t see how that will ever change. I just have to live with it, in a controlled environment. With people who could stop me, if necessary. That's why I had to return, because living out…out there, alone…” He gestured lamely. “I have nothing to hold me. It’s all triggers. It’s all…”

He trailed and Natasha ran her hand across his. Sighing, she took his glass, placed it on the coffee table, and led him to the dining room. “Lesson one,” she said quietly. She sat him down and lay a napkin on his lap. “Let me feed you. Lay all your control issues on my shoulders. Eat until I say so. But if you’re honestly too full just tell me, and I’ll stop.”

Bruce huffed darkly. “What, like a safeword?”

“If you’d like to call it that,” she murmured. “But I’d like to say it’s consent between friends.”

“ 'Or more,' huh?” He slightly shook his head. “Crazier things...okay, fine. _Praseodymium._ “

She wrinkled her nose. “You nerd.”

Bruce lay out his hands in a ‘so?’ gesture. “You asked. That’s my word.”

“Well, it definitely won’t come up in everyday conversation. Not between us.” She went to the kitchen and brought out a soup tureen. She placed a bowl in front of Bruce, and filled it to the brim. His shoulders relaxed, because the scents of the spicy stew did more for his muscles than a light massage ever could.

“Let me feed you,” she repeated, and he slowly nodded.

**

It wasn’t as weird as he’d originally thought. Natasha went slowly, plying him with foods from Mother Russia and other places near and far. He felt babied, but he liked it. It relaxed him and made him feel…well, appreciated. Cared for. Comforted. And during it all he watched her with a surgeon’s sharp eye, seeing nuanced, soft subtleties marching across her features. Something akin to love but not love; a hidden maternal instinct, perhaps. In any case, he lost track of time as he observed her, and he forgot she’d been feeding him, until the pressure around his waist became too insistent. He’d eaten stroganoff, thick stews and knishes, _kalduny,_ and _pirozhki_ …and she’d been topping him off with a few more glasses of _stavlenniy myod_ and some subtle lemon dessert that assaulted his tongue. But he still ate, craving the lemony tartness of the dessert, while each new burst of flavor made him crave more of it, even when he felt too stuffed to move.

“Open,” she murmured, and he obeyed, just like a baby bird. He moaned at the wonderful new surge of lemon while rubbing his aching stomach.

“You can undo your belt,” she said, smirking. “I won’t judge.”

He paused, but his need for comfort outweighed his modesty. And he couldn’t quite hide the sighs of relief when he unbuckled his pants and the buttons on his khakis.

“Whew.”

“Better?”

Bruce nodded, even as a small burn of red crept through his cheeks. “Much.”

Natasha smiled, apparently satisfied. Her eyes roamed the damage of empty dishes and plates on the table. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d eat that much.”

“Curse - or blessing - of a Hulk metabolism,” Bruce said, hiding a yawn beneath his fist. “Although, also to be honest, I don’t eat this much unless it’s after an Incident. But it felt good to overindulge for once.”

Her smile verged on curious, and Bruce wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. So he didn’t press her as she stacked the dirty plates. “Do you want to take a nap?”

He yawned again. “Probably a good idea. I feel a little woozy - and despite your claims to the contrary, I may be a little drunk.”

She laughed a little, and Bruce remembered how much he missed that sound from her lips; her true laughs were far too rare. “Come on. I’ll help you up, and you can lay out. And if you’re hungry when you wake, I have a few fruit _piroshki_ left.”

Bruce half-laughed and half-groaned as Natasha helped him to his feet. “I might literally burst at that point. Hulk, or no Hulk.”

“We’ll see,” she said cryptically.

He couldn’t tell if the shiver marching down his spine was terror, or pleasure.

***

Natasha’s dinner portions were enormous with far more food than he’d normally consume, and over the weeks Bruce found his appetite slowly increasing in turn. When he made eating dinners at her place a daily occurrence, he found he craved larger, fattier breakfasts and lunches, along with sugar-filled fatty snacks.

Truthfully he’d never been much of an eater, but now? He suspected a new satiety had stirred, a “home hunger,” perhaps, if such a phrase existed. He couldn’t stop equating the pleasure and peace of a home cooked meal with comfort and true safety, especially when Natasha fed him. He hadn’t expected the explosion of warmth, alternating with new feelings of groundedness and contentment, but he liked it. Natasha had been right; feeding him made him trust her more, and the anger and darkness threatening to overtake him fizzled to something less menacing. Something easier to manage.

Still, they both knew the exercises merely scratched the surface. So he let her experiments continue, despite (or perhaps because of) the consequences.

Bruce lazily sprawled across her fluffy sofa with one leg propped on the floor, while she lay draped across its back like a panther on a tree limb. There was nothing sexual about it, just sensual. But the smile pinking Natasha’s lips as she scraped her fingers up his stomach was nothing less than wicked.

“My, my. How you’ve grown,” she murmured.

Bruce glanced up, smiling coyly, and he placed his hand over hers. “I’ve put on a ton of weight, thanks to your indulgent cooking.”

She shrugged. “Fifty pounds, maybe. I wouldn’t call that a ton.”

Bruce snorted. “You definitely overwrote my metabolism. This is the biggest I’ve ever been in my adult life.”

Her brow darkened. “Does it upset you?”

He gave her question a few minutes of serious thought. “No,” he finally said, shrugging. “Tony’s being an ass, but that’s Tony being Tony. He gave me the number of his tailor, because supposedly my pants are, and I quote, an ‘explosion risk.’ “ He air-quoted the last two words.

Natasha laughed and tugged at his tight waistband. “Wrong delivery, right sentiment. You _do_ need a new wardrobe, Bruce. You’ll split a seam if you bend down wrong.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Bruce absently rubbed his belly, which had begun a nice little slope over his belt line. “I never expected to get fat. I don’t know how to dress for the occasion.”

Natasha snickered again, and they both heard a small growl rumbling from him. “Hungry?”

His cheeks warmed. “I ate two hours ago.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Bruce hid a smile. “Yeah. I am.”

Bruce shut his eyes when she left, and the heavenly combined smells of cinnamon and peaches tickled his nose, causing him to salivate. He rubbed his stomach again, feeling the rumble beneath his fingertips, and his cheeks flared as the truth dawned on him: he _liked_ getting fat and being pampered, and how _rude_ , how _very rude_ of him. 

And yet…not having had anything to compare it to in the past, he’d uncovered the joys of someone spoiling _him_ , for once.

He opened his eyes when he heard a light giggle. “You look like a huge, sated housecat,” Natasha told him. “All you need are ears and a puffy tail.”

“Meow,” he deadpanned, as she set the peach cobbler in front of him. He tongued the corners of his lips as a scoop of vanilla ice cream, bigger than his fist, slid down the top and melted into the massive layers of warm, flaky crust.

“Oh, hold on, I forgot a spoon–”

“No problem.” Bruce grabbed the dish and let his tongue dart around the ice cream in quick, lapping bursts.

“Now you really _do_ look like a cat.”

“Meow,” Bruce repeated, burrowing his face into the dessert. When he came up for air his mouth and rounded, stubbly cheeks were glistening with sticky ice cream and cobbler, and Natasha suddenly stopped in mid chuckle to stare at him. 

Bruce self consciously cleared his throat. “Sorry. I…ah. I thought it was funny.” He nervously looked away. “I’m really making a pig of myself, though.”

“No, it’s okay,” she mumbled, but he didn’t recognize the expression on her face. Her expression was coldly curious. Scientific, if he had to name it. “Let…let me go get a spoon. And some napkins.”

She left for more than a few minutes and he imagined he looked a right fool, but his greed got the better of him. He continued licking the sides in careful, cautious laps, not wanting all of the ice cream to escape to the bottom of the bowl.

When a short throat clearing alerted him to Natasha’s presence, he softly chewed his lip. “I…”

“You don’t need to say anything,” she said, and her expression became another he couldn’t read. He took the napkins and the spoon from her, wiped his face, and ate the rest of his dessert like a normal person.

But when he shyly asked for seconds, she ended up taking his spoon, and feeding him.

**

“Happy Birthday.” 

Bruce looked up from his microscope and stumbled back when Natasha forced a large box into his hands. He made a strangled noise in his throat; the wrapping paper was black, but the whole thing was done up in a huge, obnoxious pink bow.

“You know I don’t celebrate my birthday,” he grumbled, but he gently undid the garish bow. “How did you even...don’t tell me. Spy stuff?”

“No, Stark stuff,” she answered. “There’s going to be a surprise party you’re not supposed to know about, that obviously Stark _wanted_ you to know about. Or else he wouldn’t have told everyone.”

Bruce sighed heavily. “To make sure I’d come.”

“More or less.”

“Ass,” Bruce murmured. “Anything for a par…”

He paused as he opened the box lid and parted the tissue paper. His jaw dropped.

“Natasha–!”

“What?” Her face, a paragon of innocence, fooled no one. Especially not him. He gave her the eye but he probably was a bit more intrigued than was safe.

“ _Really_ –?”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

Bruce’s face felt hot as he yanked out the headband containing black, satin cat ears. He blushed even more as he dug further, finding both a puffy black tail and a [ribbon collar with a purple bowtie.](https://kittensplaypen.net/collars/62-purple-and-black.html#) And a fucking bell. Of course the collar had a bell.

“Oh my god.”

“I had to complete the set.”

He did a double take between her and the box, unsure of what to say, or how he felt. “This is…” he finally said, “pretty unique.”

“But is it unwarranted?”

He grunted. “Good question.” He turned the ears over in his hands and pinched the soft, silky tail between his fingers. “I don’t have an answer for you. let me think about it.” Running his tongue across his bottom lip, he carefully placed the ears back in the box and tried not thinking about it.

**

Twelve new pounds later, he brought the black box to their dinner night. He couldn’t say he wasn’t incredibly nervous. But trust was earned and not given, so…

“Ground rules,” he said, thrusting the box in her hands. “We keep this here. At your place. And _only_ between us.”

“Of course, Bruce. Every part of this is your play, not mine.”

He gave her a funny look. “You sure about that?”

A small smile pinked her lips. “Well it’s fun for me, if that’s what you’re thinking, but this is your show. If you’re asking if it’s another way to trust me, then yes, but I don’t want to destroy what we’ve built so far.”

Bruce slowly nodded and scrutinized her carefully. “This is pretty weird, Natasha.”

“Is it out of your comfort zone?”

“Stretches it.”

Still, it did tempt a darker part. Mostly because _this_ exercise could take him out of his head, and he could pretend to be a beast without actually becoming one. Could that actually work? _Could_ he achieve a reasonable baseline for non-violent outcomes, between him and the Other Guy--?

It was another aspect of control he never realized he wanted, until now.

“Additional ground rules?”

Bruce swallowed, feeling the nudge to try. “No pain, Natasha. Pleasure only.”

“Full immersion?”

He thought about it for a moment, then he ran his tongue across his teeth and laughed. “We could try it. I’d be okay in sweats and a t-shirt, but nothing less than that. No nudity.”

Natasha’s eyes never left his. “And what about from me? What do you want?”

He looked down shyly. “Um. Normal clothes. I’m…not prepared for anything else.” If he were truly honest, he wasn't sure anything else with her _could_ work, anymore.

“Fair enough...do you have a scenario in mind?”

His blush deepened. “I'm your spoiled, pampered house cat. Needy, and always hungry.”

Natasha smiled softly. “We can work with that. Remember your safeword, if it gets too uncomfortable. And I’ll never, ever push you. Do whatever you want, Bruce, but don’t make it weird for me, either. No litter boxes or–”

“Oh, God, no,” Bruce said, recoiling. “I’ll ask for a pause, or whatever, if I need to go to the bathroom. I don’t need _that_ much realism…”

“But--?”

He switched his feet because he was going to say it. He was _really_ saying this. “Name calling and humiliation is okay.” He scraped his tongue over his bottom lip. “To a point. I can’t say I’d like getting sprayed in the face with a water bottle. But feel free to ‘correct’ me if I get out of line.”

Natasha glared at him. “If you’re planning to destroy my curtains–-”

“Nothing like that,” Bruce said. “But if I get too needy or too insistent…”

“I doubt you’ll be too much to handle.” Natasha ran her hand behind his neck, and Bruce closed his eyes. He sighed deeply; if the noise sounded like a purr, he wouldn't have admitted to it. “When?”

“So we’re really gonna try this?”

She shrugged. “It’s one way to develop trust, but it’s not the only way. You liked acting like a cat so I ran with it. That’s all.”

Bruce chewed his lips. He could back out. He knew he didn’t have to say yes. “This weekend?”

“All weekend?”

Bruce shook his head. “Just an hour or two. A trial run, on Sunday. Maybe around 4pm?”

“Done.”

**

They quietly negotiated a few more things during the week including whether or not he wanted to talk (he didn't, but he'd tug her hair if he needed to) and Bruce made Natasha repeat his safeword since they’d both be using it. She rolled her eyes at him because _yes_ , she remembered the damn word and she could repeat it _quite well,_ thanks, ever since the _first_ time she’d heard it. Bruce apologized. Nerves, he told her. Nerves, coupled with the strange dance of their new, unusual relationship.

A little before four pm on Sunday he knocked on Natasha’s door. Her attire, simple jeans and a t-shirt and tennis shoes broke the tension in his shoulders; he'd half worried she would’ve ignored his request and come out swinging in a dominatrix outfit, complete with rider’s crop and whip.

“Come on in,” she said, and she seemed more polite than normal. Not that she wasn’t always polite, but she recognized the tension of the moment and chose to reduce it, as much as she could.

Bruce nodded shyly and dusted invisible lint from his khakis.

She smiled as he kept looking around and up, anywhere but her eyes. “We don’t have to start right away, you know.”

He let out a large puff of air. “Good. That’s good. Ah. Good.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the sofa. “I’ll be right back.”

Bruce chewed his lips when she left the living room, and he inspected her apartment as if he’d never seen it before. Her decorations were very her: complicated, but not; sparse, yet full. Simple prints paired with original works of art, combined with splashes of intense color behind gradients of gray and white. The apartment was very telling, and he wondered how many had this privilege, save Clint. Or perhaps Steve.

Turning, Bruce glimpsed his reflection in one of her hanging mirrors, and did a double-take. _Wow,_ he thought. _I’m starting to look pretty tubby._ Suddenly fascinated, he blinked at his very round, jowly, and chipmunk-y face. Rearing back, Bruce gently tapped the underside of his expanding double chin, examining the increasing folds and puffed-out cheeks.

_I barely recognize myself..._

But instead of dread, his gut did a little flip-flop, and it filled him with butterflies.

 _Best not to analyze that feeling either,_ he thought.

“Here.”

Bruce jumped when something cold pressed into his hand. “What?”

Natasha shrugged, and put her own glass to her lips. “I thought we could both do with a glass of _stavlenniy myod.”_

Smirking, Bruce took a few healthy swallows before answering her. “I think it’ll be okay. I’m not exactly ready, but…it’s not like anyone can really be ready, can they?”

She collapsed near him on the couch, and tucked her legs beneath her. She didn’t answer his question but only he could truthfully answer, anyway. "What should I call you? Do you want to keep your name?”

Bruce nervously rubbed his chin at her directness. But he supposed it was another way to check to see if he was all-in, or not. He made a face and took a quick sip from his drink. “No. I think that would get confusing, and the whole point of this exercise is getting me out of my normal mindset.”

“So?” Natasha prompted.

Bruce felt his cheeks warm, and he took another drink. “Is it really dumb to use the name, ‘Felix’?”

“I think it’s adorable,” Natasha murmured, and he felt grateful that she neither choked on her drink, nor laughed.

He couldn’t fight the smile off his lips. “Also, I don’t know anyone named Felix, so…that won’t get weird.”

“I have other ideas, for later maybe,” she said, and she finished her drink at the same time as he did. “Maybe toys, personalized bowls–”

He coughed. “Whoa...let’s see how this goes first, okay?”

“Okay.” Her face softened and she smoothed her thumb across the rim of her glass. “My own ground rules, then, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.”

She nodded, then continued. “I’ll call you ‘Felix’ until the scene ends, and then, when it’s over, you’re back to ‘Bruce.’ We can set an alarm today for exactly two hours, at which point it ends, and we process. I’ll hand-feed you this time, unless it’s liquid…then, you can either use your hands or, if you’d like, I can put something in a dish and you can choose to use your hands or drink from it like a cat.”

Bruce grunted - that made sense. Maybe he’d test both options.

“And you _did_ say pampered and spoiled, so…expect your favorites, and expect all the foods to be decadently rich.”

His smirk darkened. “Sounds perfect. And…I may want more than what you give me.”

Natasha’s smirk matched his. “I’ll make sure there’s more than enough, then.”

Bruce’s stomach did a funny little flip again. 

“I think you should stay on the couch today, Bruce, unless you need to move or stretch out on the floor. Because you’ll wish you had kneepads.”

“Heh.” He rubbed a hand behind his neck. “I didn’t think about that.”

“That’s okay.” Natasha briefly tapped his chin. “That’s what I’m here for, to help you figure it out.”

He smiled and shivered with something he couldn’t quantify. He knew the names for their particular arrangement, but he liked that they didn’t need to outright voice them. 

“Finally,” Natasha sighed. “Outside of the safeword, if either of us needs to come out of the scene, we should have another code.”

“I’ll talk,” he told her. “Maybe tug your hair. I don’t think it needs to be complicated.”

“It shouldn’t be, but if you really get into it…it might be more difficult than you realize.”

“I’ll find a way,” Bruce said, and he was sure he could. “What about you? What signals will you give me if we need to pause?”

“Hmm,” she sighed. “Three hard raps on your left femur.”

“Specific, but it works. Like tapping out.”

“Exactly.”

They looked at each other for a beat, then Natasha pulled out the black box from beneath the couch. “Ready?”

Bruce sighed, and laughed nervously as he took the box. “As I’ll ever be.”

**

It went better than he thought, for a first time. He’d gone into her bathroom and changed, and had a little laugh at himself in the full getup (was he really doing this? _Honestly_?). He also frowned at his extra large, extra soft belly poking beneath his (rather tight) t-shirt - but by the time he’d adjusted the tail through the small hole he’d cut out of his sweats, a feeling of unanticipated peace overwhelmed him. This was…okay, he decided. Calming. Necessary.

Bruce walked out on his legs, and made himself comfortable on Natasha’s couch, but as soon as they made eye contact and she pressed her phone’s alarm…he was no longer Bruce.

He was _Felix_.

Natasha rubbed and tapped his jiggly middle and called him her ‘fatty catty’ or ‘fatty Felix,’ and he nuzzled her arm and pawed at her in turn, interrupting whenever he wanted a “treat” or needed or extra pats. Most of the time he curled up beside her and lightly napped, but woke to eat or to demand head massages.

Meanwhile, Natasha mostly went about her normal routine, but she returned to the couch often, with a book to read while Bruce remained in character. Bruce decided to “test” the neediness, and if she were gone for more than three or four minutes he’d “yowl” or knock her book off the coffee table. And she would scold him for it…but then she’d relent, and give him another treat. She’d put plates of cookies and pies and cakes and all manner of things - including bowls of cream - on the coffee table, and he found he could simply tip his head over the side of the couch and nibble from them without using his hands. Each time he finished a plate she’d get up and replace his “meal,” so he was never without for too long. And he cleaned his plate every time.

When the alarm went off two hours later, he was a bit surprised - it hadn’t felt long at all.

“So, _Bruce_?”

He felt a little groggy, but hearing his name - his given name - helped him snap out of it. “Hey,” he said. He smiled a little while removing the headband ears.

“You okay?”

“More than,” he murmured.

“Anything you want to change? Adjust?”

He shook his head, still finding it hard to think and process speech. “I think personalized bowls will be okay,” he admitted. “And I’d like to put together a little space of my own, off the couch.”

“Like a pet bed?”

“Yeah.” A small smile pinked his lips. “Other than that…it was better than I expected. Much better.” He fondly stroked the cat ears. “Was...was it okay for you?”

Natasha grinned. “I always wanted a spoiled housecat. Now I have one.”

Bruce snorted. “I was certainly fed well. “

“You ate every bite. Cream included.”

"Yup." Bruce yawned and scratched his stomach, and his shirt _might’ve_ been a trifle more snug than before. “I could’ve kept eating.”

Her smile faded, but only a little. "Bruce," she said cautiously. "Do you trust me a little more, now?"

His expression sobered. "I...Yes," he finally said. He thumbed the ears, realizing this, more than the other things, worked best. He was forced to trust her, to hope she wouldn't tell anyone else, and he had willingly placed himself in her hands. The exercise threatened to become even more intimate than what they'd had, before he'd left. And he was suddenly okay with it. 

"I do. A little more." His stomach growled more insistently.

Natasha's grin widened. “Well, it’s dinner time, and I do have a stew cooking in my crockpot. Care to join me?”

“Absolutely.” He meant it, too.

**

After that, they fell into a routine. He would join her for dinner on weekdays, and they’d talk like two, normal adults. She no longer hand-fed him, but he often ate thirds or forths or more of her cooking, depending on his hunger.

In his everyday life, his confidence returned. His original shyness and aloofness upon his arrival crumbled, and he found he regained much of the respect he’d lost from his peers. Tony no longer needed to make “roll over and show your belly” jokes. Mostly because Bruce's belly had grown so much it’d become an inside joke, but also because he’d speak up when he disagreed with someone. No matter who spoke.

His and Natasha’s play sometimes became full weekends, and he became emboldened as her spoiled kitty. He constantly overate and drank double-fat cream, and lazed about in his bed and "played" with some toys. It became a way of him emptying his mind, of meditating, and he found it much easier to control the rage in him, and much easier to call forth the Hulk when needed (and to put him back quickly, even when provoked or prodded). 

He'd only needed to use their safeword once, but it wasn’t Natasha’s fault. She’d become too comfortable with him; that was the problem.

She’d sat beside his pet bed with a book in hand, while caressing his sumptuous midsection with the tips of her soft fingers. He “purred” at her, because she’d just fed him a pint of double cream, and he was very content.

But then she began to hum.

“ _Praseodymium_ ,” Bruce grunted softly.

She immediately jerked up. “What’s wrong, Bruce?”

He swallowed and sat up. “You were humming, Natasha. Humming the tune, ‘All the Pretty Little Horses.’ “

She hissed quietly. “The _Lullaby_ …Oh, I’m so sorry, Bruce. I didn’t mean–”

Bruce lay his hand on hers. “No, it’s okay. You were comfortable. You didn’t mean it. But…are you okay, Tash?” He purposely used the diminutive of her name. “The Lullaby was something we had in the past, and it...well. I guess what I'm saying is, if we don’t…if we don’t go further than what we have, right now, will you be okay? If it's nothing more than this, will it work for you?”

Her smile was sad and kind, but not nearly as sad as he thought it’d be. “It’s fine, Bruce. We’re both becoming different people, but I like this. This is perfect, if it’s all we have.”

“Are you sure?”

She sighed, and motioned for him to lay his head across her lap. “If we’re being honest,” she admitted, “I really just enjoy seeing you transition from that man I glimpsed in Kolkata: Brave, funny…smart…but oh so tragic, and closed off from the world. I wanted to see you indulge yourself. You’re special to me, Bruce. You’re a good man and you do deserve things. You deserve to be happy.”

“Fat and happy?”

She ruffled her fingers through his thick, graying curls. “Apparently fat and happy was exactly what you wanted, so I helped, sure.” She scraped her fingernails across his healthy paunch; he guestimated he’d added another ninety pounds or so since the last time she’d ran her nails down his belly like this, ages ago.

“So…yes, Bruce. I like seeing the expression on your face change from meek and nervous, to full-blown, pleasured hedonist. That self-satisfied grin marching across your lips and cheeks? That’s pure joy, Bruce. When I fed you, you graced me with the best gift you could ever offer me: The gift of your happiness. So is it any wonder that I became addicted to seeing that look, as often as possible?”

He sighed and gently ran his hand across her arm. “Then…thank you,” he told her. “I’m so huge, but…I like it. And I like that you cared enough about me, to help me feel safe.” He kissed her hand. “But maybe…we should cut back on the treats–?” He shook his head and pat his wobbly stomach. “I can’t even find a lab coat that fits anymore.”

She cocked her head at him. “Are you saying that because you want to, or because it looks bad?”

“The latter,” he admitted, sighing heavily. “I’m moving into a fatter demographic. People are staring and gossiping.”

“Well,” Natasha said. “I’m your ‘owner;’ so let me take care of those things. If you honestly want to stop, then we’ll find ways to change, but if the only reason is because it looks bad to other people?” She shook her head. “You’re _my_ fat housecat. Your comfort isn’t up to anyone else, but me. Got it?”

Bruce laughed out loud and snuggled deeper into her lap, suddenly feeling a new sense of love and warmth from her protective words. He liked this part of her, and he could get very used to it. “Got it. ‘Owner.’”

“Good.” She slapped his belly, which rolled and roiled like a turbulent sea. _So. Much. Fat_ , he thought, grinning slyly. “Do you want to go back to playing?”

He smirked at her. “Meow,” he responded, and she giggled as he put back on his ears.

**

Natasha made sure he remained indulged and happy, although they did come to a point of maintenance with his weight; it became a little difficult to move on all fours when his heavy belly began dragging the floor. But adjustments were made even then, and a little harness helped with the overflow.

The Avengers suspected and assumed a lot of things, but only Tony was closest to the truth; Bruce accidentally became “Felix” one day, when Tony pressed him to do something he didn’t want to do. Natasha had to gently correct him, in public, and she had to use his pet name to snap him back. But Tony said nothing about it, and from then on he stopped teasing Bruce about his relationship with Natasha, or his weight, and the other man even defended him, on occasion.

Honestly, neither he nor Natasha ever went farther in their relationship than their pet play, but they still loved one another deeply - even more than they had before. It had just transitioned into something richer and more precious for both of them…and as Owner and Pet, it brought them a greater sense of joy and happiness than they’d known before.

“Love is for children,” Natasha had once said.

But now Bruce understood she extended that phrase to her pets, too.


End file.
